


The Oestrogen Faerie

by Meredydd



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-28
Updated: 2011-07-28
Packaged: 2017-10-21 21:07:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/229863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meredydd/pseuds/Meredydd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a prompt on the meme (http://tinyurl.com/3ewxnuv) in which the "Oestrogen Faerie" visits 221B to give it a female touch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Oestrogen Faerie

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing you recognize and this written in the spirit of fun and fandom.

John stopped, one foot in the flat and one foot in the hall. “What the Hell is that stench?”

Sherlock leaned over his shoulder and made a face. “Raspberry Vanilla Dream,” he pronounced. “Produced by Jessica’s Exotic Scents and Smells, sold in select, albeit twee, shops on Marylebone High Street and the West End.”

John let Sherlock chivvy him into the flat, the strong, sweet smell permeating the space almost a physical wall they had to push through. “How do you know that?”

“It’s useful to be aware of the artificial scents on the market. You’d be surprised how often they are tied to crimes. I have a theory about esters and how they can influence criminal behavior. There was a case several _oh good lord!_ , the smell is even worse in here!”

John sighed and headed for the kitchen to start a pot of tea. Sherlock’s call of “Two sugars for me,” went unanswered as the doctor took in the sight before him. “John, did you hear me?”

“Uh, yeah. Just...I think I’m having a stroke. Or something.” Sherlock’s heavy footsteps shook John free from his gobsmacked state and, silently, the two of them took in the scene: potpourri in a cut china bowl graced the center of the table; two place settings, from placemat to soup spoons, sat at opposite ends of the table, the mat and plates done in a dark green toile-style pattern depicting the four seasons. The counter had been scrubbed clean and a whimsical, fruit-shaped sponge sat in a new, silver toned drain board by the sink. Sherlock’s experiments were neatly arranged at one end of the worktop. The toile pattern was carried through to the new rug before the sink and the hand towels and dish towels. A new bottle of fairy liquid was arranged just so, next to a scrub brush and bottle brush in a neat holder. “I think,” John said finally, “we need to check the rest of the flat.”

It was the work of half an hour before they reconvened in the sitting room, the pile of items on the coffee table eerie and almost accusing. “That,” Sherlock said with a hint of hesitancy, “is mine.” He indicated the shoebox full of cosmetics John had found under the bathroom sink. “As is the black suspender belt.”

“Ah. Right, then.” John set those aside and sighed. “A bottle of Midol, a box of tampons, ladies’ stockings drying over the shower rod, potpourri, fresh flowers, the stuff in the kitchen, the scented candles, the ceramic ducks with hats on them--”

Sherlock took over. “The throw rugs in the bathroom and sitting room, the throw pillows--the perpetrator has a truly diabolic love of toile, the bath pillow, the bath oil beads, the pomanders in the closet and the selection of magazines supposedly dealing with so-called ‘women’s issues’ and the romance novels.”

“Um, the novels are mine.”

Sherlock raised a brow but did not comment. Instead, he flopped dramatically back onto the sofa, flipping the antimacassar out of his face when it decided to attack him from the back of the furniture. “This is not Mrs. Hudson’s doing. For one, she’s in Brighton. For another, her taste is not so...obvious.”

“And there’d be more Burberry plaid,” John added, earning a nod of approval from Sherlock. Encouraged, John pressed onwards. “Nothing is missing, only cleaned and straightened-bless them, whoever it was, because the area around the toilet was downright disgusting.”

“We can discuss aiming issues later,” Sherlock muttered. “Now, who did this?”

“The oestrogen faerie?” John suggested, smiling faintly. “Don’t give me that look. It says so, on that magazine.” A post-it note, pink with tiny yellow roses across the top, proclaimed the apartment had been visited by the aforementioned faerie and now, hopefully, they can stop drowning in testosterone.

“Ah.” Sherlock rolled his eyes again and John was certain they’d pop right out of his head. “Molly. She heard your comment in the morgue the other day, it seems.”

“All I said was... Oh.” John sighed. He’d said that he missed having a woman’s touch about, having grown up surrounded by women and dating women almost exclusively until halfway through uni. Even after that, he’d mentioned, he’d still had close female friends and the occasional girlfriend. Molly, bless her, had apparently decided that she wanted to show her appreciation for their help after Jim... or she really was a bit mental.

Sherlock looked disdainful, but did not make a move to throw anything away. “She’s not insane. She’s merely lacking in the proper emotional tools to show gratitude and friendship towards us after the Moriarty incident last winter. And she thinks that, by making you happy, I’ll be happy.”

“Did you just accuse someone else of lacking proper emotional tools?”

“Don’t be an idiot, John.”

“You’re an emotional tool,” the doctor muttered. Sherlock smirked but didn’t say anything. “Well...fine then. I’m going to make a cuppa, finally. Next time you’re at the morgue, tell the oestrogen faerie to dial back on the scented candles. I feel like I’m living in a bleeding Victoria’s Secret shop.”


End file.
